Mr Harriot visits Redbird Inn
by JlMCdegree
Summary: For your enjoyment: A little dream of mine since I saw the street sign in Downton that reads "Thirsk - 6 miles." Thirsk is the real town that was fictionalized as Darrowby in James Herriot's wonderful series of memoirs. I'm hoping to add more stand-alone stories as inspiration strikes. Obvious disclaimer: James, Anna and John are the property of writers far more talented than I.


It was a scene that was becoming a familiar one for James Herriot, newly-qualified veterinary surgeon. As he was relaxing into a worn but cozy armchair by the fire, his colleague Tristan Farnon had already assumed his place in the tall wing-back chair. His stocking feet were propped up on the foot stool and he was lighting his second after-dinner Woodbine.

James, however, was content to stare into the crackling fire for a few minutes and give his mind a chance to slow down. During the course of that cold December day, he had paid morning calls to three farms (all of which had multiple gates to open and close) and then spent the afternoon on a trek through snow-covered fields to reach and ailing cow in a far-flung byre. The day was then topped off with the bustle of evening surgery, which was performed short-handed as elder Farnon, Siegfried, had taken a lovely young lady out to dinner that evening.

So it was with great reluctance that he dragged himself to the phone in the hallway as it rang out not 10 minutes after he sat down. Tristan gave him a wan smile as he passed.

"No rest for the wicked, old boy," he positively chirped, dropping cigarette ash onto his jumper.

"Skeldale House, Mr. Herriot speaking," was his very professional answer.

"My beagle has badly cut himself," said a steady, but clearly rattled woman's voice. "A kitchen knife fell off the table and...and...I've wrapped him as best I can. Do I need to bring him to the surgery?"

"No need for that, I'll come to you straight away," James replied. "Where can I find you?"

"Redbird Inn, do you know it?"

"Yes, that's the hotel just off the square, isn't it?"

"That's us. Please hurry." And with that she rang off.

James yelled out to Tristan, "I'm off to stitch up a dog down at Redbird Inn. So the next call is to you." As he made his way down the hall, shrugging on his coat as he walked, he couldn't resist sticking his head through the door of the sitting room. "Let's hope Mr. White's prize Saddlebred doesn't need her dressings changed again." Tristan's near permanent smile faded just a touch at the thought of having to attend one of the practice's most cantankerous clients.

Redbird Inn was a five minute walk from the surgery, less time than it would have taken to start the engine in James' icy-cold car. But he heeded the words of the woman on the phone and broke into a gingerly trot down the street. In a few moments he rounded the corner and saw a woman standing at the open door of the small guest house. She waved him over and then ducked back inside. A moment later, James was stamping snow off his shoes as she called out to him.

"Come through, we're in the kitchen."

As he made his way around the check-in desk, James saw a brown and white spotted beagle laying on his side with his right front leg held tightly in the grasp of his mistress. Specks of red were showing on the tea towel she had wound around the leg and a bit of blood was smeared on the floor. So far, things didn't look too bad, but he knew better than to raise false hope.

"Let's see what we have here," he said, easing down to the floor and taking the pup's leg from her steady hands.

He unwrapped the towel and found a fairly clean cut, two-inchs long but far from any arteries or tendons. While the woman stroked the dog's neck to hold his attention, James quickly rummaged in his bag for something to clean the wound before stitching.

"Well, Mrs..." James faltered for a moment as he realized he had yet to meet the keeper of Redbird Inn. This was a common occurrence for him, having been in Darrowby for only a few months.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," she replied, "I've been so worried about Freddie that I've lost my manners. It's Bates, Mrs. Bates."

"I'm happy to report, Mrs. Bates, that Freddie should count himself very lucky indeed. He hasn't lost very much blood, so he's in no danger there. The knife must have been very sharp, too. It's a clean cut and should heal up in no time." James looked over to Mrs. Bates, now wearing a relieved smile. "I'll just wash up the cut and we'll give him a few stitches for good measure."

"That's a relief," came a deep voice from the other end of the room. James jumped a fraction at the sound. He looked over the table to see a man getting up from a chair with the aid of a cane. In his hurry to tend to his patient, he hadn't noticed another person in the room.

Once the man was making his way over to them, he coudn't be missed. He had to be over six feet tall with broad shoulders that had no stoop of old age to match his salt and pepper hair.

"If Freddie were a cat, I'd say he's used up one of his nine lives," the man said as he bent down to gently squeeze Mrs. Bates' shoulder before offering his hand to James. "John Bates, so good of you to come so quickly. My wife was quite certain we were going to need to fit this little fellow with his own stick."

"Oh, John!" Mrs. Bates said with a laugh, giving his leg a swat with her right hand while the left never stopped rubbing the beagle's head. "You were just as worried as I was, now get the kettle on and let Mr. Harriot tend to Freddie."

In less than a quarter hour, Freddie was in his basket at the side of the stove, sniffing at the fresh white bandage for a moment before deciding a nap was of greater interest. As James washed his hands, John brought the freshly brewed pot of tea to the table along with a plate of jam tarts, his cane now hooked over his arm.

This was a custom James was quickly warming to – the good people of Darrowby seldom let him leave with out a show of hospitality. And with no wife waiting at home to welcome him back with a hot cup of tea, James was happy to sit down at the Bates' table for a few moments before heading back onto the snowy streets.

"Now we can have a proper introduction," Mrs. Bates said as she poured. "I'm Anna Bates. John and I heard a new vet had joined Mr. Farnon. Tell us, how are you finding Yorkshire?"

"Very nice, indeed," James answered as he noted the contrast between Mr. and Mrs. Bates while she stood next to him. She was quite petite, nearly a foot shorter than her husband and there were only a few light streaks in her golden blond hair. James guessed they had been married a while, based on the way they had wordlessly shared the task of setting out the mugs, milk and sugar.

"And how long have you been running Redbird Inn?" James asked once they had sat down.

"We've been here since 1924, the year our first daughter was born," Anna told him. "She took her brother and sister to the pictures tonight, or we would have had a real panic on our hands. They all adore Freddie and we never would have lived it down if he'd really hurt himself." She looked over to the now-sleeping dog and shook her head. "If only he would stop trying to sneak scraps off the table!"

"Well, if your cooking wasn't so good, he'd leave it alone," John said, biting into a tart.

"You flatterer," his wife smiled back. "Are you married, Mr. Harriot?"

"I'm afraid not," James answered. "The practice keeps me pretty busy. I think I'll be destined to marry a farmer's daughter, they might be the only girls I'll ever have a chance to meet."

"You could certainly do worse," Anna told him. "I was raised on a farm, but by the time I was your age, I was a housemaid. Now there's a profession that does its best to keep you from finding a mate."

"Yes, Mrs. Bates was very lucky I was able to whisk her away from a life of drudgery," John said, giving his wife the slightest of smiles before taking a sip of tea.

"Well, if that's the way you remember it, Mr. Bates..." Anna chided her husband, but with an almost girlish giggle.

Suddenly James felt as if he was very much the third wheel in this couples' evening alone and was thankful he had reached the bottom of his mug.

"Well, that will certainly keep me warm on the way back to Skeldale House and the tart was delicious, too." James said as he rose from the table. "Bring Freddie by the surgery next Tuesday and we'll have those stitches out."

John and Anna led James back through the lobby, thanking him again for rushing to the aid of their pet.

"That's what I'm here for," James told them. "Don't hesitate to call if ever you're ever in need of our services. Thanks again for the tea."

And with that, he headed out into the chilly night air, turning to wave at the proprietors of Redbird Inn. John's arm was draped around his wife's shoulders and James saw him kiss the top of her head as they turned back inside.

As he walked home, James thought about how the nature of his job meant he saw a great deal of his clients at their homes. It was turning him into a student of marital relationships. Mr. and Mrs. Bates seemed like a good team; calm in the midst of crisis, sharing the work of setting the tea and obviously very loving. Unlike a farming couple, running the hotel probably meant rubbing elbows with each other all day and night. A farmer, on the other hand, was out of the house with chores for a good portion of the day.

It had been 16 years of side-by-side work for the Bates at Redbird Inn and they seemed quite the contented couple. Of course, if married life was awaiting James, it would be quite different. His work would bring odd hours and emergency calls in the middle of the night. On top of that, you could throw in the state of his clothes and the smells that came with them at the end of the day.

What sort of woman would want to take that on? Maybe Mrs. Bates was right, there could be a lovely farmer's daughter somewhere in the Yorkshire countryside right now whose father has a sickly cow. Just then, a freezing gust of wind nearly sent James' hat tumbling down the street.

Well, maybe that farmer with the lovely daughter could wait until morning to ring the surgery.


End file.
